


Valentine's 2020 Shorts

by Lyssandra_Med



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Prompt play with beforeyouspeak, Smut, one shots, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: A series of prompts and one-shots focused around Bellamione, Pansmione
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 48
Kudos: 90





	1. February 1st

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tekturna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tekturna/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't exactly stick to the prompt.  
> "Two people meeting in a shop, one despises being there, the other loves it."  
> I ended up mixing another prompt from J_Constantine, "Hermione confessing feelings to Bellatrix turns her down and it gets Angsty"

In the end, there was never very much for her to say. Granite, cold and unyielding, hardly offered up introspective words and reasons  _ why _ it had all gone around. Before the flowers, before the salt, there had been words and moments filled with empty spaces in between.

No answer had been forthcoming then, and no answer would be coming now.

_ The beginning- _

Until it wasn’t. Until that first flash of a brilliant smile had turned and rolled with stretches of time that seemed to follow every path to a final destination. Black and onyx; brilliant colours flitting in her eyes, bright enough to dazzle the stars and set the sun towards jealousy. 

The gold was silver more than glitter, muted yet gleaming amidst the night of their lives.

It should have been perfect. She had planned and prepped and made sure to account for every allowance, for every opportunity-

_ It should have been right. _

The ground had been cold beneath her knee; winters first frost had only just descended, leaving grass and shrub and limb with dustings of glass and diamonds. All of it swept away by the imprint of their feet atop the hill, magnified by the scattered rays filtered through cloud and tree limb. Beautiful, crisp, just like  _ her. _

Her hand had been warm in hers; fingers tracing the pattern of old scars and weathered skin, nail tapping nails, tapping the lines of veins run close to the surface. Little rivers beneath her skin with tributaries and endpoints she had memorized throughout the months. She knew those fingers like her own, for reasons both warmer and colder than decorum would allow her to speak. 

A question on her lips; skin still tasting of cinnamon and red wines, sugary and sweet and all the ecstasy of the night before. Words had passed those lips, words of fealty and of purpose, words meant for one and no other. Words meant  _ brilliant, _ words meant  _ divisive, _ words that had once been screams of terror now come to level tones that dripped with honey. Words could never be trusted.

Who would trust what could easily be a lie?

The response had been simple. One word, one syllable, a synonym for  _ Never _ spoken as if it were forever. The hand in hers pulled back and away, wrapped up in pearly fingers as fear grew by the second. Standing there with mist between them, panting and breaking and swallowing every ache-

She had worried she would be swallowed whole right then and there. Some colossal regret to take her to Geppetto, somewhere it would be warm and wet and her tears would not be pointed out.

\---

Had it happened?

Memory said yes, but Memory was a fickle thing and hers even more so after all the fighting had died down. They explained away her desires with words and calming draughts, that despite the actions she still  _ wanted _ had been untenable to her _ future-past _ jailors. Everything that made her  _ love _ had made her  _ cry _ had made her wonder as the days grew longer whether the event was real beyond the crushing weight of despair against her chest.

Had it been imagined?

Gin said yes, but Gin was less to be counted on for her truths and more to be counted on for some odd-ball version of what her name called to mind. Something that made you speak in tongues perhaps, or turned your mouth a horrid blue. Gin wasn’t to be trusted, too high proof and yet no proof beyond the box sitting in her drawer and the tearstains upon her pillow.

_ She _ certainly never brought it up. It wasn’t remarked upon, it wasn’t reviewed, it was as if it had -  _ hadn’t _ \- happened; the Sun and the Moon both awake and alive in the sky, never moving, never changing, just an unquestionable oddity that would never be explained.

The heat between their legs still burned as strong as ever. Roaring, matching her own, her ministrations proof that  _ something _ still remained.

The ichor of her tears was still just as refreshing as before.

It should have worked.

Why hadn’t it?

\---

“You know I hate coming here. I don’t know how many times now I’ve had to explain this.”

“I know that. Still doesn’t change that we’re here.”

“But it should. You know that as well as I do.  _ It _ didn’t happen. Never would of, it just couldn’t.”

“It could have. We could have made it-”

_ “Enough.” _

“... Fine then. I’ll still come here though; if Molly can’t stop me then you won’t.”

“What about-”

“Them too. Even if you hate that I’m here, it’s the only place I feel at home.”

“You have a home.”

“Not the one I want.”

“There could have been better places for this. Your apartment maybe, even the park would have done better. Hell, I’d even take Andy’s front-room over this.”

“Andy’s room is too small. It doesn’t have a view like this.”

“That’s a little morbid, Pet. Don’t you think?”

“Maybe a little. But I like it more than just staring off into the woods. It’s not the same anymore. It’s not quiet, Teddy’s been growing louder by the day. But-”

“Now that I’m gone-”

“Exactly.”

“I only seem to end up here when you come around. I wonder why?”

“Could be you have regrets. That’s usually why. Andy certainly hasn’t seen you in I don’t even know how long. Alecto too.”

“Did she go grey in the end?”

“No, not yet. She keeps complaining that it’ll happen any day now, Teddy seems to think that’s cue for him to go grey. I don’t think she has the heart to tell him that it scares her. Cissa went white though, not that she was ever very far off that. I’d like to think that, in time, it’s the way you would have gone.”

“In a way I am.”

“But not in a way that matters.”

“Do you just come out here to hurt yourself? Penance for what, misconstrued failure? Have you  _ really _ not moved on yet?”

“It’s a little bit of both. Harry thinks if the former more than the latter but his opinion carries less weight now. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to move on. It’s just that you were all I ever wanted.”

“And yet you never had me.”

“Exactly. Maybe I’m the shade here. Will you tell me why?”

“Later, Pet.”

“Always later. Always tomorrow. Always when time comes ‘round the bend.”

“... You know I can’t offer you what you seek, Pet. I’m not here, not really. I’m not  _ her. _ You know that. You pioneered the bloody field, for Merlin’s sake.”

“And yet, again, I stand here asking  _ you _ questions.”

“And here I lay, giving none.”

“I miss you.”

“I don’t. Why would I? You said it yourself, I’m an imprint. She’s moved on. I’m just the smear along the glass.”

“Now  _ that’s _ morbid.”

“You know me too well, Pet. I’d never be anything else than that.”

Knees on cold grass.

Granite as a tower, as a looming icon of failure and missed opportunity.

Bellatrix hates it here, knew she would from the moment she first caught sight of the gaudy setting.

Hermione loves it. Loves it for love lost, love missed, moments nearly forgotten with the passage of time. 

It’s still fresh here. Penance? Maybe. Or perhaps that last gasping breath of her once-love turned forever-pain.

“I love you, Bellatrix.”

“She knows, Pet.”


	2. February 2nd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the lovely beforeyouspeak
> 
> The prompt is an aria from Handel's opera Agrippina : "Se vuoi pace, oh volto amato, l'odio reo fuga da te." or roughly in English "If you want peace, beloved, you must let go of hatred".

The sting and pull of anger was a ready constant in her life. It had been ever since she was eight years old and far too young to understand why her father chose to leave his mark with fists and harsh imprints on her tiny body.

Anger was a wellspring of energy for her to harness, easy as Muggle gasoline to light her fire. Anger was a swirling mass of red, and soon enough that red had become her favoured calling card. The fact that it was necessary to cast the spell had never been something that stuck with her. It just  _ happened, _ no matter her state of mind or mood.

_ He _ managed to harness all of her anger, all of her rage, all of the desire to  _ hurt _ when she felt small and unwanted. He whipped it into a frothing boil until all she knew was the bitter taste and acrid smile.

But  _ she _ managed to calm it; not anywhere near enough, not nearly, but it was close enough to matter.

Close enough for her to be endeared when the truth was finally revealed, close enough for her to whimper and cry when all the spells were unwound from her mind. All the nails that held that barbed wire in place were pulled out, hurting every one of them, but bringing to light the magnitude of her servitude.

_ The _ Light, as it were.

Each and every day, each and every moment, a Healer by her side even as she lay bundled in the corner with anger draining out through cuts along her mind and soul.

Still, some things never left her.

Some things were scarred too deeply to properly heal. 

But in the end, it was enough of a start that the one she had hurt managed to find forgiveness somewhere deep within her heart. Only Merlin really knew why; she most certainly wouldn’t have forgiven, were their situations reversed.

Somehow, someway, the woman seemed to want nothing more than some form of reconciliation. It might have been closure, maybe, or rather an honest realization that her evil was not born but trained.

She wasn’t quite sure if there could be any true reconciliation. Certainly not with how deep her compulsions had been laced, from all the way back as a child who barely knew any spells and nothing more than the ardent instruction to  _ ‘Listen to your parents dear, listen to Mr. Riddle dear, obey Lord Voldemort dear.’ _

It seemed to work though.

Not all the way; she wasn’t so sure of herself to label what had happened as a  _ cure. _ But it was enough that her Ministry approved home was quickly becoming something close to prosperous; halls filled with her sisters and a former enemy, soft tones uttered between the occupants instead of shrieks of pain and fear. They were all so very careful with her, as careful as they could be, choosing to avoid those few flareups and avoiding anything that could cut uncomfortably close to the mindset of those days long past.

When was a date not a date?

When the two of them were ensconced inside a stifling room with an older Healer, a hand placed gently upon her thigh and words flowing up the girl’s -  _ woman, now _ \- throat to fill her with something very closely resembling happiness. It was progress, no matter how much it managed to turn her stomach when she thought back on it during the darkness of the night.

The girl wasn’t Mud. Hadn’t ever been Mud, she knew that now. Old decrees, older legends, people who had once praised the girl’s kind as Magic made Manifest; Slytherin’s fears -  _ all valid, at the time _ \- had become a poison of the mind. Poison to their already small ranks. A poison that had circulated for long enough, in a high enough quantity, that their blood had become anything at all but Pure.

Her little Lioness had taught her that. Had brought her home copies of documents that had remained hidden deep within the Ministry Archives, letters and parchments that showed her kind had once been venerated members,  _ celebrated _ even.

No magic had been stolen.

Her heart was, bit by bit, slowly as ever.

But still the anger remained, hiding along the edges of her heart.

It showed itself whenever her temper would flare, whenever the smallest thing would manage to set her off the edge and back into the body of a scared little girl who wanted nothing more than  _ control. _ A time, and body, where she would slap away a helping hand and claw back with words she did not mean. Anger was all that she had known, and gradually losing sight of that focus had become a terror.

It didn’t matter at all that the anger had been manufactured. It didn’t matter at all that she was being healed. It only mattered insofar as what she did, and said, and thought; all of her actions and words filtered through that lens.

The girl -  _ woman _ \- managed to shift her focus.

Her honeyed eyes had been set upon the plights of those who found themselves as  _ lesser _ in the eyes of Wizardkind. Her first instinct had been to help them whenever, and wherever, she could. But with the passage of time came the realization that there were others much better suited to accomplishing that task. Others who had been downtrodden throughout their lives but given now a platform to spread their message. Others who didn’t carry any of the scars that she did, that wouldn’t frighten and scream at the tumble of a grown, or the popping sound of an Elf arriving unannounced.

Her mind managed to turn towards other things instead. Healing, mostly. Healing others, abstractly.

Andi was as much a gift to them as a curse, both the perfect muse and a perfect teacher. She had all of her own scars, after all, and it seemed she was willing -  _ in the absence of a husband and a daughter _ \- to pass on all that she knew. It wasn’t a forbidden action, despite the closeness of their blood, but it was looked down upon.

Less so, once it became clear that the Golden Girl had come along for the ride. If  _ she _ were to extend a hand, who were any detractors to complain?

\---

Everything managed to go wrong. Or right, she supposed.

Right, so long as that meant she had kicked and screamed and wailed from the top of her lungs at the horrid injustice of it all. Mud waltzing down the halls, Mud taking tea in the foyer, Mud tracking dirty footprints and filth as if this was a pigsty and not a place for decent people, a decent home.

A slide backwards, according to her Ministry appointed Healer.

A chance to move forward, according to those few who had volunteered to be her jailors.

A nightmare, for Bellatrix.

Her hands were cold and wet and shaking as she stood there shivering in the hallway, looking out upon a painted rendition of a  _ cup. _

_ The _ cup.

The one that  _ He _ would be so very angry about, so upset over, if something -  _ anything _ \- happened to it-

Soft hands so prim and proper had pulled her down to the ground despite the cracking of her voice. Her feet had folded into a seated position, her body no longer retching quite so bad. Soft words were spoken against the shell of her ear, soft arms were wound around her shoulders, soft breath buffeted against her cheek.

_ Soft, warm and secure. _

_ Soft, careful and delicate beyond measure. _

_ Soft, a kiss pressed gingerly against the fluttering of her pulse. _

It managed to be enough for the night. It was enough for the week. It was enough until the anger managed to build up once again, and this time -  _ luckily enough _ \- it managed to happen while she was within  _ her _ arms once more.

“If you want peace, beloved, you must let go of hatred.”

Soft words spoken against the raging drum of an angry mind. Soft words nearly drowned out beneath the sound of her sobbing.

It wasn’t a directive. Nor was it an order.

But it was calm, and it was warm, and it filled her with a  _ need _ to let the words bear fruit.

Anger had been all she’d ever known.

Anger was all she thought she would ever know.

But for the woman wrapped around her, for all those supporting her from behind, she could attempt to live up to it.

The anger hurt.

But this didn’t.


	3. February 3rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mixture of two prompts-  
> From stabbycrabby "date at a dog park"  
> From drD "Hermione has a nightmare about the war and doesn't wake, the person next to them rubs/soothes their body until they calm with magic"

Mornings had (with time,) become rather simple affairs.

_ Usually. _

Their afternoons were chances for both of them to laze about, moments to finish up chores and prepare an early supper.

_ Usually. _

Evenings were rather barebones affairs where being wrapped up around one another on the couch had become a constant rather than a hard-earned treat.

_ Usually. _

_ Usually, _ things went right.

\---

A ritual had emerged on those few weekends that both of them were home.

In the mornings they would start out along the thin trail that led towards the little park at the base of the mountains ringing their chosen home. It was a lovely way to spend their waking hours.

They were both so very far from all the petty rivalry that had invaded their youth; Houses so opposite yet still so very similar, both of them living a life so different but still ending at the same point. Pansy clutched her mug safely in one hand while with the other she toyed with the warm grasp of Hermione’s fingers. A lazy smile stretched across both their faces, Pansy’s mane of kinked curls dyed brown and auburn bouncing against the nape of her neck as she walked. It was a look Hermione loved, and one she had been keen to cultivate once it became clear that  _ something _ existed between them.

The first chill of winter was in their air; it was nothing steady, nothing too cold, but nipping with enough bite that she had draped herself in a comfortable sweater she had swiped from Hermione instead of her usual cutoff shoulder affair. The leaves were still tumbling all across the ground in imitation of snowdrifts that would crunch and scatter at the movement of their feet. It was pretty, in that Autumn sort of way that let their hearts know that soon enough this ground would be white and pristine with frost and air that burned their lungs.

But it was not yet Winter, and Hermione instead found time to toy with the little piles of leaves as they wandered closer to their destination. Her leg would kick out with blinding speed to dash apart a particularly heavy drift, her movements punctuated solely by a heavy breath and satisfied huff of air.

The air was crisp, their bodies warm.

It wasn’t very much of a long walk to the local dog park; a space that was absolutely filled up with animals and (mostly) gentle souls who all lived within the confines of the small village they had ended up moving to. The populace was a mixture of Magical and Muggle; more than a few Witches and Wizards could be found walking their favoured pet out along the trails this early in the morning, and though they had yet to adopt a furred friend of their own, still they enjoyed the easy company provided by animal and human alike.

A singular park bench was their final destination; the whole of it solidly built from old oak and cold steel, rigid yet aged enough to have sagged down into a comfortable position. Minutes would turn on into an hour where all that passed between them was an ever warm mug of coffee and soft words about their plans for the days and weeks ahead. It was calm, even with the constant barking and yapping of the dogs, and each of them delighted in picking out a breed to imagine as their own; both of them spent minutes weighing the pros and cons of such an arrangement.

They both knew that in the long run, a situation such as that would be untenable with their lack of any House Elves or a desire to board the animals during the day. Their separate jobs managed to keep them both occupied for long enough to ensure that it would be a disservice to any animal to be left alone all day. But one day (they reasoned,) when the myriad debts of their pasts had been paid off in full and nothing else remained to keep them away from a simple and quiet life, they would find themselves something warm and energetic to keep them company.

All this mused upon a bench as a mixture of Muggle and Magical walked and talked around them.

_ Usually, _ that was how their mornings ran.

Sometimes things were worse though.

Sometimes it wasn’t the soft lilt of a charmed alarm clock that woke them with the Weird Sisters (even after all these years). Sometimes it wasn’t warm kisses that yanked Pansy from the clutches of her echoing dreams. Sometimes it was a whimper instead, or a moving limb that brought to bear the sight and sound of Hermione laying lost within her mind.

Lost within all the tumbling memories of a past best left forgotten.

Sometimes it was a hand clutched atop her stomach, sleep shirt held tight within Hermione's grip and nowhere to go but to her side immediately. A jolt awake wouldn't work for moments like these. A jolt awake would work  _ against _ her more than with her, even if it would wrench her sleeping lover from the nightmares still plaguing her. 

A jolt awake was dangerous, was an invitation to fire and flame and all the wracking sobs that Hermione's heart could wring out. 

Something gentler was needed. 

Pansy had acquired her job more out of necessity than any desire to work in the doldrums of the Ministry. There wasn't a time in her life that she would have expected to find herself a Curse Breaker at the employ of Unspeakables, wanted and sought after to disable all the wretched machinations of Voldemort's Almost-Regime. She had an aptitude though, and when the Parkinson name came crashing down there hadn't been anything for her to do except explore options outside of being a wealthy heiress. 

Sensing Magic had been a skill she had used at school, immensely useful in sussing out the competitions intentions (bad, usually), and preparing herself for the worst.  _ Sensing _ led to throwing, led to unspooling some portion of herself to flit across the ground like the snake her House lay claim to, moving and feeling all around itself for nuances and changes. That same magic could do things too, limited in scope but powerful in specifics, and she had learned to harness it to the best of her abilities as soon as she could. 

Like now, where Hermione lay across from her with tears in her eyes and screams buried deep within her throat. Muscles shook and jittered, a slow release and roll that sucked her up more than it increased the chance of waking. 

Pansy knew the rules, knew her job here, and with minute slowness she rolled out, unbound and striking, her mind aware more than her body. 

_ Magic. _

The edges of sensation  _ wavered-wandered-wrinkled _ until some distant portion of her could coil about Hermione. The pressure was a constant stream of powerful emotion that wicked and sat back on haunches waiting to dig in. She ploughed ahead with all her energy focused deep along the Curse-Mark of Hermione's arm and sideways-split to soothe at burning skin. She was heated just like always and forever, an Ever-Flame beneath her skin and burning with the energy of hidden memories. It wasn't painful (far from it), but it was foreign, it was  _ different _ yet so very like her own. A pressure pushing back into her eyelids with all the force of grinding palms-

_ There!  _

A gap in the armour, a chink in ironclad defences, a steady stream of light and  _ need _ that called to Pansy as if she had been born for this. 

She supposed she very well might have been. 

Regardless of direction or intention, she could feel Hermione wake from the grasp of the nightmare. Her body was full and warm and shining amid the half-darkness of the room and Pansy felt herself fall anew for the woman at her side as she lay there blinking sleep and petting at snakes that didn't truly exist. 

Hermione had asked her about it once, about how she visualized what she was doing. Pansy hadn't the heart to describe it, to say there were snakes where she had hands and that they flew on rivers more than slid on surfaces, and while she might have remained silent she was sure that Hermione knew regardless. 

A head against her shoulder, the alarm set for a half-hour later than normal. They slept again, in places and fields where darkness could not reach them, and if Hermione dreamed of pretty little garden snakes that ran between her fingers, she did not let it be known except by the smile on her face. 


	4. February 4th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from the lovely drD, "Hermione is MoM and needs a ritualist, an obscure and nearly defuct sect of witchery that was once banned pre-Harry defeats Voldemort. Only the previous dark families would know much about them, but Hermione is determined to get a ritual for good luck to pull the current corrupt ministry officials out of her Ministry. enter cissa/bella/or whoever in their dark abode ready to do the ritual, but what they don't say is how intense and seductive the raising of such magic can be"
> 
> I twisted it a little to fit less than 2000wds, hope y'all enjoy!

A situation where  _ she _ needed something wasn’t  _ usually _ how things ran.

Very generally speaking, it was everyone else who needed something from  _ her. _ They needed her judgement, they needed her signature, or they needed soundbites to reassure their wailing masses that the country and its peoples were still alright.

But now  _ she _ was the one needing something. Needing something strong and powerful that would wrench off the leeches who had somehow stuck it out through three quick changes of Administration; hopefully this time would leave them squashed and flat so she could reclaim the stolen blood.

Whenever someone needed something that was likely  _ dark _ and possibly -  _ probably _ \- uncouth, they would go to the Black’s. It was the only course of action that made sense when asking the normal riff-raff would end with someone in chains or worse, Obliviated. You say you want your enemies to have all their sordid little secrets brought to light? Well, then you went to Narcissa. Did you cry out for someone to come down with poor health, and be much too sick to ever run against you? Well, Andromeda had a variety of potions and poisons tailor-made to fit your needs. Or perhaps you wanted your dearest enemy to be found dead, with no particular way that it could come back around to you? Well, Bellatrix was your Witch.

The three Witches who lived in the back of Grimmauld Lane, each of them but a parody of the Fates with all their eyes still attached.

Bellatrix Black; a true warrior born and bred, she had served out her time beneath the grindstone of two Wars, gotten her licks in and then gotten out as soon as possible. Not that her decision to leave battle was spurned by lack of courage, mind you, but rather her duty to Family came first and foremost. When Narcissa and Andromeda lost their husbands, she came back home to protect them both and ensure the safety of their Lines throughout the remainder of the Tumult. Bellatrix was a good woman, so long as you meant dependable and exacting to a fault, and Hermione could think of no one better suited to hire on as protection.

Narcissa Black; Arachne reborn, weaving her webs of wonder and delight into iron links and chains that entrapped her victims and left all her fingers clean. The woman had a lovely way with lies and gossip that went far beyond the scope of mere tea parties and social gatherings. No matter what it was, she heard it first, and if she hadn’t then it was simply lies nowhere close to truth. She wasn’t Hermione’s first choice but after searching the Archives hadn’t yielded any results she had broadened her searches to encompass the repositories of banned information held deep within the cluttered bowels of the Ministry. No luck. And besides, this was far more interesting of a route, and damn her if she wasn’t one to seek out dalliances with reckless danger.

And last, but most certainly not least, there was Andromeda Black. To those more learned she was known as Andromeda of Archios, the foremost student of a foremost scholar on the Healing Arts and all that caused their need. Not very much was known beyond that, other than the fact that when she had been young she had married herself low and then moved abroad to study until the whispers of danger had begun to filter through her door. She had returned full-grown with a child in tow and an older gentleman at her hip; within a week of her return Andromeda has set up an Apothecary specializing in service to St. Mungo’s and flooding the storied halls with advice and rare imports to heal the wounded brought back to rest within its walls. A slithering rumour had abounded after long enough, whispered on the backs of midnight wonderings- Andromeda had potent venom and was willing to strike wherever it was needed, and while no one at all had ever been able to pin her with the blame it was still clear as day that her detractors had all suffered from the most painful of ends meted out by poisons and tinctures most clearly not from Britain.

And then her poor husband had died, and Narcissa’s too, and then the three were all reunited beneath the lofty ceilings of the Manor at the end of the Lane; a massive creature that stood to swallow up the street and cover all the neighbours beneath its shadow. Shadows that now blanketed Hermione’s much smaller form.

Not that she would have found herself deterred by a chill even twice as strong; Britain's youngest Minister had her position for a reason, and at twenty-seven she was still their Golden Lioness. She would not be cowed into common deference by the massive edifice, nor would she shiver from the cause of her being there.

A sharp knock upon the black door ended up with Hermione led inside by a croaking House Elf who looked far older than Methuselah and far less comforting than any Boggart. Kreacher was his name, or something else just as uncouth, and he led her forward with bent over steps towards a sitting room where she was advised to wait on the sister’s arrival.

In the end her wait was short. Before her tea had grown the slightest bit cold she was joined on either side -  _ and front _ \- by a Witch much older than herself. Blonde to her left, Black to her right, a head of Auburn and Autumn left to face her directly. The deal they offered her was simple, really; they would each supply her with exactly what she needed with the only condition being that she not ask questions and follow their every order.

It was easy to acquiesce to their terms. It wasn’t as if she had very many other options to choose from besides claiming foul to all present at the Wizengamot; the action of calling  _ them _ out might lay her foul and lead towards her own head being placed atop the chopping block if she managed to piss off the wrong person or failed to prove each and every word. She didn’t want that. Her head was perfectly fine atop her slim shoulders, even  _ if _ Bellatrix wouldn’t stop muttering  _ ‘Off with her head,’ _ every few minutes.

\---

Three days later and one night of sleep down, Hermione found herself nestled quite deeply within Black Manor. The bottom-level Ritual Room was an empty and barren space with nothing around except three nude Witches who couldn’t quite keep their hands off of one another and a fairly plain looking ritual circle that had been carved into the floor and salted with powdered gypsum and shattered bits of quartz.

It wasn’t that wild or dangerous looking, all things considered. Hermione had most certainly gotten up to far more sapphic -  _ and deadly _ \- arrangements during her now bygone University nights.

Bellatrix started them off with a chanting tone that curled and pounded once they were all in place; her consonants were low and solid and tone harsh in a way that brokered no resistance, spoke of nothing but the Elder. White meant Black in a space like this, and though her words were fleeting they still reverberated all throughout the room and through their bodies. Hermione’s part in the Ritual came next, the instruction having been clean and clear; her sliced palm opened skyward to the Wilde that ran amok beneath and through them. It was as pleasant of a sensation as Ritual magic could deliver, but not nearly so heady as to ascribe anything overtly  _ dark _ to the process.

At least there wasn’t until Andromeda started chanting, with Narcissa following swiftly behind her.

The driving  _ hum _ that filled her ears wasn’t odd but for its suddenness. She was  _ certain _ that it had existed before but had existed beneath the periphery of her awareness; a vibration against her ears that became heavenly the longer she stood there. The hairs on her arm were stood to attention, her nipples were stiff and rigid, eyes filled up with pupils that she could  _ feel _ dilate.

The magic was everywhere and it was nowhere and if it weren’t for the threats of what might happen to her should the ritual not be completed, Hermione was sure she would have stopped right there and let herself be drowned beneath the sensation. As it was she swayed side to side as the hum increased again, twinning and growing with the fervour of the Sister’s chanting. She could  _ feel _ something that fluttered along the edges of her perception, she could  _ feel _ all the magic closing in around her body, an exciting warmth that was brazen as it invaded the cut along her palm. The steady heat between her thighs was growing higher as the situation lept forwards towards the only logical conclusion-

_ Euphoria- _

When Hermione awoke there was a haze of smoke blanketing herself and the bodies scattered around her. Bellatrix was drawing pictures into her skin with sharpened nails and Andromeda was mouthing at a purple bruise along the inside of her thigh. Narcissa seemed to have disappeared, at least she had until Hermione realized she was laying on her back with head propped up into the softness of skin. Warm thighs buttressed either side of the back of her head as strong hands worked their way through her mass of tangles and curls.

“So that’s it then?” She wondered aloud, looking all about herself and slowly swimming up through the echoes of the Ritual. Bits and pieces of her memories were returning, lavish seconds spent with lips on her skin and another’s tongue in her mouth, skilful fingers in her core.

The woman behind her began to laugh as gently as she could, a sound still warm but somehow  _ harsh _ in a way that left the space between Hermione’s legs hot all over again.

“Of course not dear. That’s just for  _ one _ of them. We’ll need to do this again for each and every rotten little mouse that you want caught.”

Silence descended upon them. The dripping warmth along the inside of Hermione’s thighs served just as enthusiastic of an assent as the crooked grin that stretched itself across her face. 


	5. February 5th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The only true language in the world is a kiss." No dialogue.
> 
> Short & sweet.

The graceful press of pillowed lips laid gently against her own. The nervous tremor that led to clacking teeth and an awkwardly positioned nose. It wasn’t a graceful embrace shared between two experienced lovers. It wasn’t delicate or practised.

But it was  _ theirs _ and theirs alone.

Neither one of them had much time to spare if they wanted their dalliance to remain a secret, and while Hermione was perfectly willing to walk these halls unburdened by worries over gossip, Bellatrix was not. Sharp teeth that gleamed amid the darkness were nipping up along the edges of her lips, the soft breath panting out a sweetened mix of mint and spice that mingled well with peeking tongues that combated one another for control.

Hermione so seldom found a chance to wrest control from the uptight witch and rule their interactions. Now, with summer rapidly approaching them with no chance of stopping it, she sought to leave her mark emblazoned on perfect Witch. It was a mark of shaded lipstick against too pale skin, it was a mark of teeth embossed along the crook of Bellatrix’s neck, it was a mark much more like a sheen where her tongue had painted too warm skin that was flush and bright amid the half-light.

Her hungry mouth was a fever, was electric, was everything that she could do -  _ a plea more than a simple bargain _ \- to let Bellatrix know exactly how much Hermione wanted.

Reciprocation was a welcome advance but not expected, not so close to leaving Hogwarts.

She found herself pleasantly surprised.

\---

Her lungs were filled with stale air that burned and pounded against the inside of her chest.

Hermione had shoved her with all the force that she could muster until Bellatrix found her back against the wall and hands pressed back against the cold stone. Hermione seemed to take her inaction for what it was and slid one hand atop Bellatrix’s wrist and the other up her shirt, short nails dragging lines across the smooth plane of her stomach. 

There was nothing for her to do except exist within the serenity of their shared momentum.

Hermione brushed against her lips with a tongue cool and wet, Bellatrix quickly able to pick out the subtle taste of mangos and citrus above all else. It tasted  _ familiar _ in a way she wasn’t sure she could let go, and it was with all the energy she could muster that she finally found her purchase to push back against the woman and suck in a lungful of air before she passed out completely.

Would she die from a lack of oxygen? Maybe.

Would she die from the sudden flush that was threatening to overpower her furiously heated skin? Definitely.

\---

After some moments their positioning became gratuitous, their bodies far too flush together and the minutes spent within that alcove inordinately long.

Hermione lingered for more moments than was wise, and it was with one last biting nip that she pulled away from Bellatrix before a gaggle of students could come upon them. Bellatrix stared at her, and Hermione felt that familiar call of summer that said they would pretend again that they did not exist as  _ them _ and instead as  _ separate. _

It hurt her, more than it ought to have, but she had survived this before and she would survive it again. She turned away as a seventh year brushed her shoulder, stepping off-

Faster than she could comprehend, Bellatrix had wrapped her fingers around the thinnest portion of her wrist and yanked her back. Lips pressed against her own, energetic and courageous.

They separated to the gasps and whispers of those walking behind them, faces pink and lips stained red.

A peck upon her cheek roused Hermione from the wonderful madness of the moment, her hand wrapped up in Bellatrix’s as she was tugged along towards the train station.


	6. February 14th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this is messing with style. No prompt this time, just a one shot

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that we’re fucked.”

The voice -  _ so very obnoxious, so very  _ **_annoying,_ ** _ too prissy for comfort _ \- echoed in and around the haunted space until it had reverberated against every wall and every hollow. It faded, as did everything, left with only the patiently dripping water and the sounds of strained breathing. It was too damp here, much wetter than she had at first imagined yet so much drier all the same. The air was stale to the point of miasma -  _ not that it had ever stopped her from coming down here _ \- with hints of decay and the cloying scent of rot that drifted off the massive coils of a long-dead Beast.

A Basilisk, or at least what was left of one. She’d named it Ignus on her first trip down. Ignus, short for Ignoramus, short for  _ why the fuck would anyone leave a treasure trove of valuable materials down here. _

The coils themselves were slack and stuck against the cold stone floor with reams of mould and mildew, all the bones and precious spiny barbs of its ribs pulled open to peek out from the remnants of the magically resistant hide. Scales had fallen upon the ground in heaps akin to dried leaves, and what little musculature now remained was dry and stiff and in no shape for her to use. The Eyes that had once petrified her were now pale and mostly destroyed, containing no hint of that yellowed venom that had once struck so much fear into the inhabitants of the school.

Empty now, just like her head, just like her heart.

“Hello? Mudblood, your better is talking to you!”

Hermione managed to dodge the spell more on instinct than any level of rational thought. The red bolt of energy shot out across the space she  _ had _ been and off into the side of the dead Basilisk with a horrid thudding noise that brought to mind fruitless memories of pounding her fists against the dirt in hate and rage. She rolled up, pulled her wand, and in no time flat she had Pansy down upon her back with ankles and arms trussed through with ropes that held her flat.

“Need I remind you that it was  _ your _ hair-brained idea to follow me down here Parkinson, you’re the reason we’re both stuck here. Anti-Apparition wards that  _ Dumbledore _ can’t take down, Anti-Scrying wards that Trelawney can’t get past, and an entire Circle of Protection formed from the influx of pipeworks. Even the fucking Marauder’s Map can’t find you here.” Hermione spread out her arms as wide as she could, twirling in place, “Welcome to the widely sought and rarely found, Chamber of Secrets. It’s a combination of Salazar Slytherin’s personal quarters, his study, and a laboratory. Once a cage, no longer.”

Pansy, by now biting back against a loop of cordage that had been wedged deeply between her teeth, made numerous and pitiful sounds of distress as she lay there and wriggled in an attempt to work herself free.

It wouldn’t work. Hermione knew that, knew it couldn’t really. Her magic was far too strong and her anger too deep. She certainly hadn’t wanted to be trapped down here with no immediate method of escape. She  _ absolutely _ hadn’t wanted to be trapped down here with a preposterously overcompensating Slytherin Princess. The poetic irony of  _ another _ blasted snake being trapped down here wasn’t lost on her and as the minutes ticked onwards with no immediate solution in sight she found herself wondering just how she could make use of the situation.

Or set herself free, whichever came first.

“You know, the whole reason we’re trapped down here is because of the lockdown. And yes, I know you wouldn’t have had the foresight to think of that but it is what it is.” She prodded the still squirming girl with the heel of her boot, “Because you decided it was a perfect idea to come down here as an enemy, and uninvited.”

She turned and headed off towards the massive statue that Salazar had erected in his honour -  _ ‘Bloody fucking narcissist,’ _ \- mumbling spells and potions lists beneath her breath. At the base of the statue, she flipped her wand in the air twice before setting it aside in her holster and placing a hand down upon the cold stone. A painful rasp exited her throat in a silent hiss that remained sharp and potent as blood began to spill down onto the wet granite at her feet. Task accomplished, she stepped backwards and healed her palm as the stones of the floor rearranged themselves into a tidy little hatch that she could step down into. Though there had been no way for her to properly open the door when she had first arrived, she had found herself a workaround that she was sure Salazar had never once expected.

A Basilisk fang, filled with venom and tainting her blood. A cut upon her hand weeping ichor against the glyphs until they had opened for her. The mixture of the venom and her blood had created the appropriate conditions to unlock the little bunker; her method was a secondary Key that would let anyone in right then, and ever after. Apparently the mere thought that anyone would  _ actually _ try it had amused Salazar into creating it. Basilisk venom was, after all, incurable. 

So long as said someone had no means of access to fresh Phoenix tears.

The space below the floor opened up into a rather small room lined all along the walls with intricate tchotchkes and memorabilia that Salazar had collected over his long life. Baubles made from metals she had never seen before, hourglasses she was fairly certain were filled with Unicorn blood, bits and pieces of now-extinct magical creatures and so  _ many _ books.

It was a treasure hoard for someone with Hermione’s mindset, someone who wanted excitement and knowledge to be forever at their fingertips. Someone who was, much more often than not, on the rather grey side of Magical alignments.

Or Dark. She was that, as well.

Hermione passed by the rows of items and headed towards a trunk that had been laid flush against the farthest wall who knew how many hundreds of years ago. A simple press of her finger against the latch led towards another drip of blood that unlocked the tumblers and popped open the lid. She sucked the pricked digit and mused for the barest second on all the little things Salazar had hidden away behind blood-locks and wards. Sure, one could never be too careful, but there had to be  _ some _ level of paranoia involved.

It wasn’t as if someone could normally get past the Parseltongue, regardless of their wishes. The blood-locks just seemed…  _ excessive. _

No matter.

For over six years the girl waiting up above her had been nagging day and night with taunts and promises of pain and retribution for something that Hermione  _ knew _ she had never done. Her crime had been that of being born,  _ lesser _ despite the shared makeup and magic. No longer.

Best she show Ms. Parkinson just how much her bite was worse than her bark.

\---

The phials clinked and clattered within a loose grip as Hermione slowly ascended back towards her schoolyard adversary. Pansy wasn’t where she had left her but neither had the girl managed to get too far away. It was, after all, quite hard to make an escape when bound and trussed like some overly lascivious present.

Hermione set the phials down upon the ground and waved her fingers to reel back the protesting girl. Once she was within reach another swish of Hermione’s index finger left Pansy once more on her back with limbs splayed out into a cross, her mouth finally freed from the improvised bit.

“Let me go you bitch-”

Hermione cut off the protests before it could truly begin to start with a mild hex that would leave Pansy voiceless until such a time as it was lifted. She wanted no distractions, nothing at all that could disturb her from the plan, and by all the many Gods would she get it.

“I promise that it’ll only hurt a moment, Pansy dear. Then, if you’re lucky, you’ll be all evened out.” Hermione uncorked a stopper from the first potion of the group and set it along the ground, “I don’t suspect that you’ll retain everything I tell you here but I’m in a teaching mood and without your  _ lovely _ voice to interrupt me, well, I think it’ll be some quality entertainment. Besides, it’s only right that you know exactly what it is you’re giving up.”

With deft fingers she poured the liquid into Pansy’s still protesting mouth and covered her up immediately with nails that dug into the girl’s cheeks as she sought to hold her head still. Nostrils were closed next, Pansy struggling valiantly, stumbled into swallowing when no more air remained within her lungs.

“My Mistress, who you’ll meet once we’ve gone over a little  _ etiquette, _ has high hopes for me. I don’t want to disappoint her, and you don’t want to disappoint me. You’re a part of this now, for good or ill. Nod once if you understand what I’m saying.”

Hermione watched with delight crawling along her face as Pansy nodded once. The girl’s eyes were glaring daggers and the tendons of her neck were straining but still nothing could be done against it with the liquid compliance shifting its way through her gut.

“Good! Lovely, actually. Now then, Mistress Black prefers for her subordinates to have a certain level of… shall we say,  _ independence. _ After all, it certainly wouldn’t do if they couldn’t function alone in the wider world. However,  _ I _ don’t require that at all. I’d like a Pet, and Mistress has said on more than one occasion it’s time for me to take what I want from this world. You’re the first, Ms. Parkinson. The first in a hopefully long line. Do you think you can survive all this, for me?” Hermione uncorked the next phial as Pansy began to shiver against the ground. Was it the potion making her body jerk around? Or fear? Hermione lacked any real way to tell for sure without Legilimency, and with the absolute whirlwind no doubt passing through her mind, Hermione wanted  _ nothing _ to do with whatever lay inside her head.

Again she repeated the motions of pouring liquid down Pansy’s throat, again she fought to keep the girl’s mouth shut and gag reflex from kicking in.

Again, it worked.

\---

Finding the perfect time to leave campus was a rather annoying game. 

Not only did Hermione have to find a way to escape the repulsive clutches of Ronald, but she also needed a compelling enough answer for  _ why _ she would disappear off the corners of the Marauder’s Map. Harry might have been a dense saviour, but he was by no means a fool. Or at least, a fool that would be charmed by sweet words and easily checked upon lies.

Luckily for her, a quick admission that she required extra help for a Runes was enough to get him off of her back, and a lengthy explanation on  _ why _ she needed assistance was more than enough to get him to leave it alone the days and weeks following her Ascension. Now, as she left with Pansy compliantly in tow, he only nodded once she let him know she would be gone for the remainder of the night.

The potions and spells had managed to work wonders on Pansy’s disposition over the past few days and Hermione could hardly contain herself with all the excitement that was brought with it.

“Well?” Mistress Black had asked, clearly looking for Hermione to put on a show. “What have we here… You’ve been quite a busy Pet, haven’t you?”

Hermione preened beneath the attention, her own Pet disrobing when she sent through a mild compulsion. Soul magics were tricky things that could go wrong even under the best of circumstances. Soul magics were even harder when applied in a magically neutral space such as the Chamber. It had been tricky and for a while, Hermione had wondered if it would fail.

But it hadn’t.

\---

she knew she wanted to do something, she knew someone somewhere wanted her to perform an action, a rite or a ritual, though she no longer held within herself the capacity for such complexities

not that she needed it now that her Lioness had decided to show her the way forward, shown her the proper methods of performing all her duties and filled her top to bottom with reams of instructions

instructions that were now instinctual, even if it took her far longer to remember the pauses and lapses that made up what  _ should _ have been her everyday life

_ Pansy _ knew that she had homework to finish and letters to write, a status that she had to maintain.

_ she _ knew only that her Lioness had called her up, and she had come running

now, as they stood inside the massive foyer of a magnificent building the likes of which she had never seen before, she basked beneath the whiskey gaze of her Lioness’s eyes

_ “Sit,” _ came the command, words clipped and brutal.

sit meant the same as kneel meant the same as  _ ‘Spread yourself, lay low as the Snake you are,’ _ and she followed the direction to the letter, even as some foreign portion of her mind sought to rebel

that portion of her mind was howling and screaming and bashing against the bars of its cage, but in the most recent days it had begun to grow quieter with every potion that she downed

its voice was hoarse and red and angry at their situation but as seconds turned to minutes turned to hours turned to days turned to weeks, it had suddenly not seemed so important just  _ why _ that voice had been angry in the first place

and now, as she knelt with legs spread wide and body open, she could not hear it at all over the glowing praise that fell upon her when she pressed out her chest and returned her Lioness and Mistress a smile that was glowing

her Lioness fell backwards into the grasp of their shared Mistress, her own clothes long divested and exchanged for red and angry marks that bled where sharp black nails had pierced her skin

it was beautiful, it was  _ aching _ and the longer that she stared the more she  _ wanted _

“Lay back Pet, all the way.”

she moved as quickly as she could, no sense of reluctance but still not fast enough, and stared above towards the patterned tiles and mosaics that made up the ceiling

it depicted something she should have known about, something managed to harken back to memories now lost, but with the sudden hand pressed against her core and the heat that shivered and worked through her Soul Bond, she cared not

_ ‘Spread yourself,’ _ came the command, a hushed whisper against the interior of her mind that filled and soothed what little anxiety remained

she felt herself flush with heat, and while it made her wet to know someone else was watching, the most dew was earned simply by the virtue of serving

that was, after all, just what she had been made for

_ ‘Finger yourself,’ _ came the next words, heated and soft and so very delectable

she reached between her legs with a tentative hand and pressed one finger against the source of the liquid now coating her thighs

wet heat met her, and she drew her fingers up towards the hardened nub of flesh at the apex, twinging and fighting to hold her muscles in place as she worked to complete the command

a finger slipped in, a nearly silent hiss slipped out, and she felt herself fall back further into the deepest recesses of her mind

it wasn’t instructed but her free hand reached up across her chest to gently roll her nipple, the flesh beneath her grasp turning hard and growing with the pounding beat of her heart

“Hurry it up.” Mistress’s voice filtered in through her mind, “We haven’t all day.”

she knew the request even if it wasn’t being directed at herself, and with a churning pulse of heat that landed squarely within her belly, she moved her fingers to the beat of her Lioness’s incessant drum

she came with a whimper, a mewl, a desire for  _ more _

“Well done, Pet. Now let’s see what else it can do.”


	7. February 19th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Editing

“Are you alright, Hermione?” Bellatrix’s words were a questioned gifted with softness, careful and quiet. She was aware of every movement, of every straining muscle and all the intricate lines of tendons standing out against her neck. The girl was restless as she lay there and Bellatrix took great pains not to startle her like some doe as she spoke again, “Hermione?” 

Fingers prodded against the softness of a fluttering pulse. Breathing was checked with the back of her palm. All normal, or close enough, as far as Bellatrix could tell. Still, it took some minutes before Hermione began to stir in fits and starts that led towards slowly rolling limbs. It was enough of a pace for Bellatrix to draw in her own breath and settle back on slowly cramping legs. It wasn’t ruined. Their plans, their shared intent, researchers both looking for a way out.

_ Escape. _

Hermione’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal the first oddity of the night. One eye just as bright as honeyed whiskey, pupil constricted and strained. The other was, disconcertingly,  _ not _ honeyed whiskey. Humanity had been given over to something bright red and startlingly expressive despite the lack of regularity. Bellatrix drew her breath in with a gasp and felt her own eyes widen to the point of incredulity and pain; her twinned orbs of coal-black grew drier the longer that she stared at the offending madness.

_ It had worked! _

Two researchers of the Arcane, two scholars of olden tomes and barely legible writing, students of the Divine. Explorers of a branch of Magick that wasn’t thought to have existed in generations.

Demonic summonings, bindings, expression through the controlled application of a Marker. Hermione one of half, Bellatrix the other, both of them the whole of their little resistance to Dumbledore’s draconian rule. And now, after several years of attempts and trial and error that had erred more on the side of failure than fruitfulness, they had succeeded.

Hermione bore the first fruits of their labours. The first markings of  _ real _ power.

“It worked!” Bellatrix exclaimed gleefully, prodding at the girl with a sharpened nail and eyes that lingered across the sun-kissed skin to find any further abnormalities.

“It certainly feels like it worked,” Hermione replied, body heaving as she sat upright and crossed her arms against her chest. The movement did little to remove Bellatrix’s eyes from her front, but it did bring back to mind just what they were supposed to be doing.

Oggling the results of their experiment was certainly lower on the list than joining Hermione in her Ascension.

“It feels like a buzz,” Hermione shook her head, long curls waving about as she did so. “Like the greatest drink I’ve ever had.”

“Whiskey? Or vodka?” Bellatrix peered in closer to inspect Hermione’s chest and arms, shifting her head and catching the faintest glittering of a sheen as she did. Oil slicks came to mind first; the pearlescent reflection of a rainbow was not dissimilar to the patterning of Hermione’s new skin. Though, for odd reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, it felt or seemed to be less the rainbow and more the  _ inverse. _ “Pretty then. Well, me next, eh?”

Anticipation boiled across her veins as the Hourglass at their side began to vibrate and roll within its chains. Need drove it, just as need drove her, and though its purpose wasn’t quite foreign to Bellatrix it seemed to differ from the Magick trapped within herself.  _ It _ wanted out.  _ She  _ wanted to be filled.

What use was she as a Human to her newly demonic lover? None, and Bellatrix knew it. Best to get the show on the road and join by her side.

Hermione stood onto shaking feet and legs that wobbled as she fought to find her equilibrium. She swayed back and forth with hands massaging at her temples for a moment before she seemed to find herself and iron raced down her spine.

“You need to hurry, love.” Her counterpart’s voice was wavering as she spoke, her eyes wide and fingers grasping at the air as she watched eddy currents of  _ something _ that Bellatrix could not see. “We’ve been noticed.”

The threat of exposure and torture underneath Dumbledore’s dreaded Order was all the motivation that Bellatrix needed. Without another word she dug her fingers into the powdered minerals held tightly in the closely weaved baskets at their side before spreading the remnants across her skin, underneath her ribs and along the arching of her shoulders and brow. She lay down onto the cold ground with no visible sign of hesitation despite the massive difference in temperature, her arms spread apart as Hermione finished drawing runes and glyphs against her skin with a nib of charcoal long worn down. The Hourglass at their side thudded and rocked against the stone with cyclical patterns that beat themselves into her ears.

Until it stopped.

Bellatrix looked over, amazed and afraid for the first time in forever as the dust and sand within the lower half all swirled backwards towards the top. The Heirloom wasn’t wrong-

“Time’s up,” Hermoine whispered against Bellatrix’s ear, her voice a shout despite how low it was. With rapid determination and no chance to back away, Hermione shoved a length of steel that had been sharpened to a point and painted over with runes into the soft hollow beneath Bellatrix’s ribcage. The steel was cold and sharp -  _ hardened just as much as they had been _ \- but the glyphs etched upon its surface were the harder part of the action. Pain lit up the interior of Bellatrix’s mind as her Soul opened to the Magick contained within. Her mind opened into a mouth opened to gulp and sip and strain as energy raced from Soul to Hell, the  _ mind _ within her now strong and wielding no uncertain level of madness.

Consciousness fled her as she spoke in tongues and writhed about with blackened eyes and nails rapidly giving way to razor-sharp claws that dug canyons into the stone below her. Hermione stood aside as she had been instructed, her own inner Demon roiling and fighting beneath her skin as they watched the ritual call out to  _ another. _ The odour of blood was overpowering -  _ and Gods how did that iron scent taste so sweet _ \- but light,  _ homesick _ in a manner that reminded her of so many years away from family. Hidden, shrouded, sent to a school that her parents would never know existed, all while she slowly forgot their faces.

Hermione threw the latch with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. All along the floor runes that had been marked with blood and ash began to shine a brilliant purple that shimmered and mixed the longer that she stared. All around her the air whipped up and pulled inwards towards the centre, towards Bellatrix, carrying with it the cloying scent of sulfur and decay. Not unpleasant, not good either, but sweet and rotten and filled through with so much lost potential. 

Bellatrix’s body fell back flat against the floor to lay rigid and unmoving with eyes open, dilated and still. Hermione watched with unhinged glee as red invaded the whites of Bellatrix’s left eye, watched with shivering muscles as the nascent claws sharpened and lengthened further, watched with happiness sparking in her chest as Bellatrix’s chest heaved and the hole beneath her ribs healed closed. 

Bellatrix coughed once, twice, and surged forward to sit up and grasp at Hermoine’s shoulder. Their lips met hungrily, teeth on skin and tongues pressing forward without invitation. Breath mingled, blood as well, and in the seconds that followed her Ascension, they might as well have been the only ones left alive in all the world. 

“Stolas?” Bellatrix whispered, her throat new yet scratchy and unpracticed.

“Yes,” Hermione replied, boundless excitement bleeding from her own heart and the  _ other _ riding along within her. “That’s who I found. And you?”

Bellatrix relaxed, Magick warping and tugging until their setting had changed and sun pressed warmly against their backs, “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”


	8. February 20th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not edited

It wasn’t so much that the world and all the greenery within was massive, or that the trees were anything monumental. This wasn’t the old grove she had played in as a child, nor was it the massive immortals along the New World’s western coast.

It wasn’t imposing, it wasn’t  _ threatening, _ or at least not so much as all the gnarled forests and low-lying brush that had hampered her travels and exclusion back in her homeland.

It wasn’t even that here -  _ where no one and nothing had ever loved her _ \- she felt  _ calm _ for the first moment in what seemed to be forever.

The trees still managed to make her feel tiny. Were they toothpicks and she a speck of dust, the world inverted and upended with all the contents strewn about. Quiet ruled these spaces even as birds and insects and all the little creatures tried their best to fill the in-between. It was oppressive only when she allowed herself to feel crowded and without a crowd, she could not.

Would not, were any of her choices or opinions taken into account.

The air that whipped her hair was fresh and chilled, spring having only just arrived to bring with it the dying gasps of winter as it fell to rest. Hands remained in jacket pockets, a scarf wound tightly around her neck, hair and ears only barely hidden beneath the comfort of a beanie she had nicked from a hapless traveller who had insulted her blood. Fuck him, but thanks for all the warmth. 

None of the trees cared about her pilfering. They didn’t care at all about all the terror that had led her here. They didn’t worry that her idea was half-baked, half-formed, melting under rationality. 

She would rather die than go back.

\---

Sunlight filtered down through the leafy canopy with a startling brightness. The thin needles were far too little to stop its downward momentum, too thin and light by far. Green far up at the top, brown and ochre at the bottom, soft beneath her feet with all the promise of a comforting featherbed. Here and there small twigs poked through the carpet of needles, little things no thicker around than her finger and still no stronger. 

The tips were green and filled with life that strove to embed itself between the lumbering giants of their forefathers. It wouldn’t last -  _ nothing ever did _ \- but she was certain that  _ somewhere _ there would be a grove, a plateau, a glen or clearing where nothing at all could hold them back from shooting towards the heavens. They would take root with all the burgeoning power of their elders and grow strong amid the silence of the forest. 

Would that she could do the same, and cease her restless tumble.

\---

The trails that weaved in and out of the forest were more suggestions than anything else; deer and bear and cougars were all unencumbered by the nettles and pockets of kudzu, all their spaces overgrown the moment that the vegetation pressed its advantage. Kudzu grew faster than the days turned and sought to encroach and cover everything it could with hanging sheets that had turned brown and withered now that Winter had come and passed. 

She followed around the suggestions of a depression against the forest floor as the trees began to change and the air along with it. Here there were stout oaks, here there were imprints of lonely elms, here the husks of beasts long-aged and gone feral in their isolation had come to rest. The roots bit at her feet, twisted into loops and curls again and again. The branches lowered to her face, her arms, looking to ensnare her as she pushed forward. The House loomed far ahead of her somewhere beneath the canopy of the forest.

The House  _ called _ to her.

Solace and solitude, a home away from Hell.

A place to build her Empire.

She passed around a bend in the forest that led off towards a spring and a well and a long meandering branch of dried out dirt and old piles of leaves that could have at one point been a river. It was nothing more than an obstacle now, nothing at all except a bridge for her to cross and nothing more than one last dip before the final stretch.

The bend was tight, the bend was long, the bend was standing on aching legs with muscles that refused to cooperate as they fought back against the incessant ache. The bend was finding out that her destination had been lost for who knew how long, and while she knew these woods she did not know  _ these _ woods, despite having once memorized every detail of the terrain. But the House was out there -  _ rotting hulk though it may be _ \- and while she could no longer deny the flaring of accomplishment she could also not deny the lance of fear that tingled and pricked at her belly.

Ice settled along the crisscrossed pathways of her veins and heart.  _ Warmth _ settled in her bones.

\---

The House was not specifically a  _ House _ but more the remnant of a House long withered and decayed. The space in front of it was free of trees or large shrubs -  _ the local vegetation having decided it was a mausoleum unneeding of decoration and finery _ \- that had been instead replaced with lilies and daffodils and reams of clover that sought to sprout up below the quickly emerging grass. The temperature was different here, time as well, and though the outside world had yet to enter summer here it had come full bore. The foundations -  _ what was left of them _ \- were merely greyish blocks that insinuated and hinted at the former prestige of the setting. It was distant from end to end, far wider than even the scholastic fields back at school, and while it seemed to have no end she could make out the barest sliver of a wall out in the distance.

A wall of thinned out grass, and the evidence of rotting wood long fallen to chips and splinters as the living portion of the forest sought to eat it all back up were all that remained.

She should have guessed that there would be nothing left here but the faintest outline of its former glory. One hundred years was a long time and more than enough for whatever magic had once made itself at home here to have fled in distaste. Still, she had hoped. Hope now proven wrong and unfounded but worthwhile all the same.

Worthwhile as a marker of her decisions, except for the pain it caused inside her heart.

Her head inclined as she strode across the faint like to poke and prod with booted feet at the lumps of what might have at once been furniture and finery. There were bare impressions of other walls within the space and opened outlines of what could have once been doors. She knelt down to gather dust and pick out the faintest gleams of silver and brass.

She missed the open pit where once a basement loomed, a cold cellar meant to keep rot away.

She fell.

\---

Waking up to find her head in her hands and her ankle twisted around was not exactly what Hermione had in mind for the remainder of her afternoon. Certainly she had more than enjoyed the fleeting dream she had been pulled from -  _ all of them alive, all of them waiting for her, all of them  _ **_here_ ** \- more than being awake somewhere was quickly coming to despise. The minute fact that she  _ had _ managed to dream at all was a boon to her psyche, no matter how bruised it was after her tumble. So many sleepless nights filled with half-forgotten nightmares had chased her every rest for so very long that the thought of finding refreshment had become a dream unto itself.

There was no time for rest in this New World, wicked as it was there had been no relaxation when she found the demons she had been hunting were the only things left keeping her alive. Reality was a cruel mistress. Reality was the dust in her hair and the leaves that slid across her back and shirt as pain laced itself along the bending twist of her leg.

Reality was abhorrent even when it proved she was still alive to fight it.

\---

Nightfall brought with it the dreaded chirruping of crickets and incessant droning of cicadas looking for lost loves. Mosquitos bit at her neck, bit at her ankles, bit at every portion of exposed skin. Hermione lay back down upon the floor with a second heart riding shotgun in her chest and salted trails of red bleeding down her cheeks. This wasn’t the end she had wanted, this wasn’t what she  _ needed; _ dying alone and empty without finding the House as she should have was an empty response to the Hell that she had suffered through to get here.

Her magic  _ might _ have been able to make a difference, but-

Well.

No reason. No reason at all except the spectre in the corner of the room that stared back at her with coal-black eyes that seemed lit from within. The grimace stretched across Her face could have been mistaken for a frown but Hermione knew exactly what it was. The creature had followed her just as it had said it would. She should have known it, should have prepared for it, but here on her back with detritus in her hair and pain shooting along through her foot and leg, the spectre was the least of her worries. The Scar would keep.  _ She _ would keep the scar, no matter how much the ghost inside of her wished for its release.

\---

Something was  _ tap-tap-tapping _ along the inner boundaries of her mind. Fingers poked and prodded and sought to  _ dig _ when she failed to respond sharply enough. Something with dark hair and dark eyes and fangs that gleamed and glittered was  _ inside _ her. A hand pulled her up by the collar of her shirt- Or tried to anyway, even as the hand phased in and out and left her lying there still.

This decaying remnant held more than she saw at first glance. There was more here that she couldn’t understand amid the things she hadn’t seen before and things she hadn’t wanted to see and things that wanted  _ her _ more than they wanted a past that no longer existed. Things that were embedded within her flesh and brain and the woods surrounding her. She  _ knew _ them all yet she knew them not; the creature inside her veins was howling for release now that the moment had come to be.

But it hadn’t. 

_ And yet it had. _

There was nothing here.

_ Nothing except the darkness that whispered that there  _ **_could_ ** _ be. _

\---

She climbed out from the hallowed basement with an unsteady footing and feet that dug and planted into the soft loam, pushing against chilled roots and fighting through mist that fell as a waterfall to fill her new space. She rose up bit by bit until eventually her eyes were level with the ground floor and fingers were scrabbling into the dirt to find a hold. All the muscles of her back and shoulders burned as she exerted herself, her abdomen a clenching pit as she dragged herself upwards over the lip of the floor. Once there -  _ and yet not _ \- she fought with her racing heart to regain something close to calming breath.

Nothing here to eat.

Nothing here to drink.

Since when was that ever a deterrent to her plans and motivations?

Of course she hadn’t truly thought this through when she made the bargain but then again when had she ever cared for fully formed plans? In her defence it seemed clear that her initial assumption for this day had been taken down a peg or two. She had imagined that this day would take a few hours at the least and that sooner rather than later she would find the House, find her Soul, find a way to release the  _ thing _ in the back of her mind and rid herself of the lead she had found herself entombed within.

The Mark  _ burned _ as she rose upwards onto unsteady feet and fought to remain off of the offending ankle. It wasn’t that she wished to remain unharmed -  _ all the Gods knew just how harmed she really was  _ \- but the day had not yet ended despite the Moon reigning up on high. The same Moon that had peered down at her that night within another forest, where she had waited and hoped and pleaded with all the Fates that it was not true.

_ This could not be, this was wrong- _

It was right. The woman had given her a lasting imprint, a lasting memory that was designed to hold on and never let her go. A memory in the shape of another soul, an imprint and a shard as much as it was a copy. She held it closely as the days had gone on and turned to cherishing it when the madness of the world leaked out around her.

Madness-

Madness left her here, standing and tall.

Madness noted the imprint upon her soul and had wedged itself inside her until they were three for one and the Third the strongest of them all.

\---

Magic was at once both the only thing keeping her from failing and the very thing set to destroy her. The House was built up again within the hour; Turners turned to Time turned to Lives, rebuilt all that was broken and brought it full circle through the insanity of playing in the domain of the Gods. A Turner lovingly melted and then dispersed within her Mark.

The pain of her bonding had been extraordinary but worthwhile even if she hadn’t understood her ability at the time. Certainly she would manage to survive this just as she had survived all the initial cuts. She had managed to outlast the inhabitants of her body even though this far on she wasn’t quite sure had kept to the plan’s original beginning.

Two stories on top of the pit that had become a hole that had become a trap.

Instinctual more than reactive or conscious. A consequence of her pain and anger and fear rather than her intent or direction.

The wood surrounding her was ancient by design; lumbering oaks had been chopped down long ago to fuel a lumber trade long dead, their remnants fashioned and nailed into place with iron and brass and copper that was so very far from modern steel. The porch wrapped around to portray its footing as innocent and inviting despite the roughness of the surrounding terrain. Though, when she thought long and hard on it, she managed to realize that it was likely clear enough when the place had been new.

Once it was less of a forest and more of a small acreage.

Time passed into irrelevance here, just like she herself.

Hermione opened the door without a single hint of hesitation in her movements or her grip. The hinges were all well oiled and swift enough to fall shut behind her with a satisfying click. Feet -  _ bare now that the swelling had died down _ \- upon a carpet too short to have been anything other than for show. Too green, too silver for her tastes but beautiful nonetheless.

A foyer then.

She felt the cold hand upon her shoulder before she saw the invading aura, watched as flesh flickered and faded away to wisps of mist and smoke. The kiss laid gently against her neck was featherlight but  _ real _ and with its press she could tell that she had made the right choice, even if by accident. There was a power all around her that seemed to fill the space with ringing that pulsed and prodded against her ears. It wasn’t too loud, it wasn’t too strong, but it  _ was _ noticeable.

She tried to put it out of her mind even though she knew that she could not. The ringing was  _ real _ and it meant that her purpose and reason for existing were close.

\---

Fingers grasped at her arms, grasped at her wrists, ground down sharp nails into the sun-kissed arching of her neck. A knife ground down against her with purpose and desire that left her bloody and terribly used. Magic entered her and consumed the rot.

A curse, though one could see it differently.

A prayer, though one unholy and forbidden.

Even  _ Her _ leader had thought that the action was distasteful and had looked down upon her with something akin to fear spreading beneath the anger of his beautifully crimson gaze.

Two rooms down held something close to what she wanted. She could  _ feel _ it.

Hermione blanched and summoned up the ritual knife.

\---

Carving sigils into her skin was the easiest part of the night. Listening to the phantom whisper in her ears was something else entirely and not exactly an unwelcome action. It spoke of deeply twisted desires and magic unknown to all the rest. It spoke about love and the purity to be found within her new purpose. It spoke of retribution and fire for all the evil that had befallen her. It spoke and Hermione listened and in the end the madness that she found there left her invigorated and refreshed.  _ Alive. _ Surging with energy and ready to face down the reality of her world so long as she managed to complete  _ this. _

Thirteen runes laid out for thirteen sacrifices and thirteen lives that she had snuffed out in her bid to arrive here. Seven was best forgotten; in this world the old values and traditions held no purpose and were of no use, were all so archaic as to have fallen and settled into dust nearly half a millennia ago. This was the land of  _ New _ magic, and of  _ New _ ideas towards enlightenment for witches and wizards who had run full bore towards the unknown in their desire to escape the Burnings in their homelands.

They found another form of fire here and for all of Hermione’s preparation she still managed to find herself unprepared for the sheer brutality of it all. Embedding herself with enchanted sand and glass had been one thing, allowing herself to hold onto the portion of her enemy’s soul had been another, but agreeing to merge the two into some unholy abomination and birth it through her blood had been an immediate  _ ‘Yes.’ _

She would tear apart this Old World that had fallen to rot and bloat and all the little things that prompted Voldemort’s ascension and Dumbledore’s complacency and Fudge’s mismanagement and the system that had kept  _ lessers _ in their place. Lessers who were kneeling down to worship boots and meagre changes, meagre upwards movement, scraps and bits designed to keep them all in check.

She would burn them all down with Hellfire and damnation at her back.

\---

Bleeding out from the glyphs and runes and a self-inflicted tear into her abdomen wasn’t exactly what she would describe as being  _ fun. _ Nor was it easy; at multiple points she had felt an indescribable panic towards her damnation and fought herself to remain unhealed and bleeding. The shadows that had been following her were all visible now in the shade penetrating the room and cast by a flickering fire that had once been laid to rest and now blossomed with purple and magenta flames.

And then it  _ bit. _

The magic surrounding her coalesced, formed itself up, brought itself down to her core with the very essence of her unhinged madness and set alight every nerve inside her body. Every piece of her was now  _ thriving _ underneath the hatred and boiling anger that consumed her. Nails dug deeply into her skin, the curves of her muscles turning hard as iron while she cramped and closed inwards. Sweat dripped down to mingle with blood while acerbic salt filled her mouth. 

Teeth grew longer, sharper, as she lay there.

The shade of her once mentor, once torturer, once  _ lover _ seemed to swirl and fade in a fashion that mimicked the rapidly beating thrum of her heart. At last she felt the warmth of that heat and desire come to life between her legs. Sweetness mingled with iron to coat her thighs and drip down onto the fanciful carpet as Bellatrix came to life. The scar upon her arm was still holding onto the witch but less so than it had, a lover parting ways with the expectation of being reunited.

Hermione  _ screamed  _ as the third shadow clawed itself upwards from a tear she couldn’t even see, the whole length and breadth of it enormous along her peripheries but minuscule as she looked directly at it. The cramps ended, a release was granted, a flush of obedience and pleasure driving her already brilliant skin through multiple shades of _ red. _

“Pet,” the Demon spoke, its eyes smouldering coals in the darkness of the room.

“Pet,” Bellatrix voiced, naked and amused and  _ feral. _

Hermione gave in, and let the darkness consume her.


	9. February 22nd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild-editing. Adapted from one of my original stories.

Thirty-three hundred walls crafted from glass and bone, all of them etched so deep with runes and glyphs long lost to scholars and academics alike.

Fifty-five copper-clad doors that fell inwards towards nothing and nowhere and darkened spaces that existed beyond all hope of rhyme or reason or  _ rightness _ .

Twenty floors -  _ at least _ \- all stacked atop one another with the haphazard precision of a drunk spilling blocks onto the ground. If there were any machinations in place -  _ or intricacies and designs and ideas laid down deep within its darkened foundation _ \- beyond the grasping weight of her eyes, only the Builder knew. 

The Riddle House was itself a labyrinth, and not. It was both the conundrum and the solution, and not. It was the final state of something so broken as to be irreparable, and not.

_ Old wood torn from the belly of the earth- _

_ Broken parlours bedecked with intrigue and desires hidden from the heart- _

_ Air fresh, air clean, a wind that carried with it the curious scent of cinnamon and pine- _

It was a run-down shack barely three stories tall from the outside.

It was unending within the depths and hollows.

\---

Fifteen troubled souls had entered in through the sagging husk of a front door long bashed and broken. Fifteen of them passed through and out from the last safety many would ever know. Twelve men -  _ mere boys, really _ \- with their minds turned towards winning and surviving. Three women -  _ girls, the same _ \- wondering at their own place in the dawn.

Up and down they raced through halls that looped backwards towards the same decaying intersections-

_They were_ ** _lost,_** fallen loose amid the tangle of the Maze and its ever-shifting halls.

Now only three remained, healthy if no longer whole.

Hermione hadn’t been the first of them to venture deep within these walls nor had she been the first. She was, however, here now with little more to do that push on after the mountain of a door had closed shut behind her. Wandering backwards and forwards with no idea of where she was or who she was or  _ what _ she was-

No way to identify who, _what,_ ** _where_** she had been.

There had been no entrance exam. This wasn’t a test so much as a  _ test _ and there were no pamphlets telling her what to do, what to study, and though she moved with all the swiftness that she could muster-

Well.

None a bit of it made any fucking sense, not a single fucking whit.

There was nothing for her to ground her mind against, nothing for her to hold tight to within the twisting burrows of the Maze. Her Pocket-watch had been a reassuring weight with silver chain, her Pen a dagger meant to hold Demons and danger at bay. But beyond those meagre items? 

Nothing.

The uncertainty was a crushing pain that hurt her far more than it should have; not knowing something was a disease that could shred through the inner portions of her heart with all the rampaging madness of bull set loose. What little briefing they had been given was over far too quickly to be absorbed and their task set to right away. Three minutes of mumbled words and half-formed answers were nowhere near enough to pacify a lifetime of questions.

An evening spent within the Riddle House, and one night to find their greatest wish.

That was it. That was all. Nothing else, nothing more, nothing to explain it all away.

Or, rather, it would have been. Would have, if not for the Spirit impatiently bashing away from within the prison of the Pocket-watch. Restless and ill at ease with all the roiling movement of a pack of eels. Thumping that grew louder and louder to pound and swell in time with her heartbeat as feet ascended the Maze. The Spirit trapped within her wasn’t quite harmful -  _ not to her at least _ \- and seemed more than willing to bond almost immediately despite neither one of them being truly willing to acknowledge the other. Still, she remained unsure of where they stood. Acceptance, and yet ignorance. Were the other Spirits their competition? Were they all merely tools?

Treasures?

Or were they really just the souls of those lost and broken throughout the years?

A dead woman who had been tricked and trapped within a Pocket-watch with nothing to do except service a Lord -  _ or Lady _ \- that they had never even met before. Hokey, sure, but downright dreadful regardless. But there wasn’t much that Hermione could do for whoever had been trapped deep within her shiny new jewellery except try to find out by inaccurate means whatever she could.

Which lead to nothing.

The Spirit wiped clean upon the end of each year, barring those who Won. Would she herself be wiped? Stolen from her body and thrown into some random object to live out the remainder of eternity?

Would she simply die?

Riddle House, stuffed deep within the land that existed far beyond the grasping reach of time. It was an anomaly that existed only as far as it could, a place between worlds and ruled over by capricious Gods and other beings that seemed to want nothing more than a show. That the show involved pitting strangers against one another was irrelevant to their humour and entertainment.

Place bets on living beings, on lives lost and stolen. Spill and swap gold over those who lived, and those who faced the in-between.

_ The House  _ **_always_ ** _ won. _

\---

Fifteen entrants and five more hidden from all the others, each and every one of them fighting for something they weren’t sure existed. Something that was promised to them, all for the hope of finding whatever  _ it _ really was, and in their efforts avoid the forfeiture of their souls. 

_ None of them had chosen to ante up. _

_ Something _ meant to keep claim to them, either the House or a being, or a Being which seemed to be a House but was not. Maybe they would be recycled. Maybe wiped clean. Maybe dead.

Maybe.

But-

_ She could win. _

She could have one single wish, one moment one thought one breath to fix it all. One single reality-defying moment where  **_she_ ** could pick whatever it was that she craved, whosoever she desired, any wound closed up and any richness delivered.

Any throat slit.

The space surrounding the House had been cleared and paved and used to brief them all too quickly with words they only half understood. Find the Centre, find the Heart,  _ find a way out, a way through,  _ **_find the-_ **

Find…

**_Something._ **

Find it and the wish would be theirs alone. A Spirit placed inside their item would win as well, or maybe not. Who knew? A second chance granted to their unholy remnants, a chance to come back from the Dead.

Maybe. Or maybe not. A single wish.

Fifteen -  _ or maybe twenty _ \- all setting out with the objective of  _ Survive. _

Now down to three. One by one the others had all found themselves slain by those who paced the lower floors. Hermione hadn’t made the mistake of getting caught; not that she had made any particularly  _ good _ choices either but she would take still breathing and bleeding as the success that it was whenever she could. She had hidden herself during the wildest moments in a wardrobe upon the second -  _ or thirteenth _ \- floor when Bellatrix pointed out that the pounding footsteps that had been following her were growing louder with every moment.

Of course Bellatrix hadn’t exactly been none too keen on hiding themselves away from all the fighting. The soul captured deep within her Pocket-watch had been raring for blood and carnage and the sweetly snapping sound of bone crushed down to dust. She had argued as hard as she could, screamed even, her body flickering into existence just around the same moment that Hermione managed to pull the thin doors of the wardrobe shut. 

Tall, fanged, dripping venom and spitting ire, all for Hermione to hear and witness and no one else.

Bellatrix hadn’t known exactly who she was but had accepted the first name that came to Hermione with as much enthusiasm as a long-dead fighter could manage. Still, her eyes had bled hatred and anger in such quantities that Hermione had felt the mildest urge to forgo a name entirely.

Best she just name the Spirit as a Demon and get on with it.

But the Demon had softened as the night wore long and thin, stilled her nigh unlimited hatred and imbued Hermione instead with the need for questions and answers. What had happened to the woman she had used to be? How had she died, or better yet, why? If Bellatrix managed to stay with her and they won, would all those memories be unlocked? Could she even manage to live a life outside these walls, if it meant she would need to keep all these bloodied memories?

No clue. No direction.

Just seconds that ticked by with jaws that ached and vision that trembled and tears that leaked trails down both their faces whenever one of them spun into high gear. The Pocket-watch  _ burned _ within Hermione’s grasp as the night wore on and they ventured ever deeper, an unblinking eye etched upon its face with all the malevolence of her new partner.

It  _ hurt _ her.

_ Bellatrix _ hurt her, though Hermione was sure that she hadn’t meant to do that at the time. A quick duck into what could have been a study, or might have been a kitchen -  _ all of it too smashed and broken and battered to make heads or tails of it _ \- once upon a time. Quiet and safe, for the first moment in who knew how long. Hermione had turned around on her way back out, and walked straight into the body of a nude woman twice her age with skin vivid and etched-

Bitten the next second, Bellatrix’s mouth latched harshly onto an outstretched hand with dark eyes that widened and swallowed her whole. A snake biting a mouse. A mouse pumped full of venom and ichor and emotion and energy that  **_blasted_ ** underneath her skin. 

Riddle House, a space filled with Spirits and dead men who yet walked, a space where a woman with fangs bit a woman with soft curls bit back a scream of horrified delight.

Three of them left to wander with patron Spirits by their side, or inside.

The odds weren’t in Hermione’s favour, she had known that from the outset, but still she had been whispered to before she left and allowed one silent moment of interaction with a Goddess-

A shadow that had hung above her with eyes that pierced her mind.

Smiling.

_ At  _ **_her._ **

Words that pounded down into her brain in a language she couldn’t understand or hear. Words that made no sense.  _ None _ of it did. Or maybe it all would, provided that she managed to live out through the remainder of the night. Did time pass by here? Or was it all simply on pause until they had each killed the other? Hermione wasn’t sure what was happening at any moment, especially not after the bite. Confusion ruled her.

But she would live.

\---

_ Feet dashed against the rotting floorboards as she flew upwards along another branch of stairs with body lurching into the corner and teeth  _ **_burning_ ** _ within her skull and blood dribbling past her lips. _

The floorboards beneath Hermione creaked and groaned as she ascended again and again, away and barely ahead of the angry voice that signalled Ronald was behind her yet. He rounded upon the landing, roaring and hollering in ancient tongues -  _ screaming at himself, at her, at an enemy he knew not _ \- that ripped and shredded the last bit of reality Hermione held onto. 

Bellatrix was just as angry as their would-be pursuer and her voice was a hiss of angry feelings and tones that blackened the burning pit of Hermione’s consciousness. It wasn’t great that they were sharing this moment of mounting terror and confusion, and while Hermione knew she could now push herself far beyond any sense of  _ normal _ limits, there were walls that even she could not climb.

Eventually, they would both fail.

Eventually, they would both die.

That was what they were meant to do, wasn’t it?

It was, after all, the one thing she had succeeded at in life. Why would this be any bit different?

That was her Wish; just to win, just this once, just one chance to find herself atop the burning pile instead of pinned down below with no air and no movement to save her. Of course, the Wish relied on her winning  _ this. _ It relied on her making it through this insanity alive, if not broken, but whole enough to ask for it. 

_ And something deep beneath her skin wanted  _ **_out._ **

\---

Bellatrix snatched away the reins controlling Hermione’s mind with a ruthless efficiency that left no room for argument or banter. She wasn’t quite sure what it was that she remembered of her past life, but she knew how to fight. She knew her charged up core, her changed body, she knew the powers she had been granted and knew they were more than enough for her to destroy the now lumbering creature that slowly closed in on them.

Sharpened fangs all pointed and dripping venom, fighting and biting with all the hatred and anger that had been bottled up by her extended stay within the despicable Pocket-watch. Capricious Gods, a broken Goddess, so many things so varied and evil for her to extend and spread that anger towards.

An etch upon her soul. She had been shoved down into a piece of fucking  _ jewellery. _ It was wrong. Terrible, even.  _ Horrid. _ Aeons of nothing except the aching pain deep within her breast.

But she was different now. Alive, in a way she had never been before. And judging by the pounding heat that wound and coiled low in Hermione’s belly, her little host felt just the same.

Wicked fangs buried themselves deep into the meat and gristle of Ronald’s throat to pump warm venom into his fevered bloodstream. The fool began to scream in shock that turned to terror that turned to  _ pain. _ It was…  _ hard, _ this thing she did. The magic present within her own talisman was long gone and given over to her body instead of being poured into a priceless artefact. The twisting burn existed within  _ her _ now, instead of being safely kept away. Whatever, or whoever, the owner was had been was long gone. Their bones all ground to dust, spirit ripped out, its talents put to better use.

Talents better suited to the  _ outside _ of her prison walls, instead of lying cooped up within and no way to put them to use. 

An entire year she had spent trapped deeply within that bauble, trapped with her mind erased and nothing to do except look inwards at the festering hate. No light. No darkness.

Just  _ nothing. _

Nothing at all until light had finally peaked in through the eyes of a woman who at first looked so delectable that Bellatrix had found herself salivating even though she had not yet turned corporeal. The Hunt, as she had come to call it, was never-ending. She  _ knew _ that she had been here before and been held by beauty and desire more times than there were stars strewn out amidst the sky.

She knew nothing of all those lives that she had lived. But she knew she  _ had _ lived them.

Little bits and pieces floating amid the darkness.

She knew it had begun long ago, she knew that it had started on some token night when aliens and witches and things-not-of-this-realm all came together to bet and play with mere mortals and their Help. Cruel Gods that had run through all the numbers in an attempt to predict who it was that would win, or just how harshly they would fall.

A trial to find another God or Goddess, if Bellatrix believed whatever scrap of her mind it was that spoke to such truths. A trial that changed all of its entrants; each and every competitor would come out different then how they had gone in, no matter if they simply ceased to exist or were stowed away for the next year’s Hunt.

The cravings had been the worst of her changes, the worst by far. The sudden and blinding need for  _ meat. _ A desire that she had ardently attempted to keep unfulfilled despite the burning in her gut. 

Until she didn’t.

Human meat, human flesh, the bits of those who wandered and fought with the Riddle House. It was a simple interest that began with a bite while she was fighting for her life -  _ against a Man with horns atop his head and a glare that threw her into a frenzy of terror _ \- from one of the last remaining contestants. Hermoine had bitten deep into the meat of flesh and muscle of his shoulder, Bellatrix’s teeth lodging -  _ and then dislodging _ \- with a chunk of steaming tissue. Hermione had torn at him, pulled him apart as blood filled her gasping mouth and soaked her hair a crimson to match the dye of Bellatrix’s dress.

Dress…

_ Red? _

Oh, where oh where had she -  _ they _ \- stored that little memory, secreted it away to call back upon a moment of reflection? No idea. No answers. Only the lonely beating of her -  _ their _ \- heart as the woman kept her hidden within the Pocket-watch.

Outside.  _ Inside.  _ **_Both._ **

Hermione wasn’t alone now -  _ the voice within her mind screamed it so _ \- as she wandered the Maze. She wasn’t exactly quite human either, but that managed to bother her far less than the insatiable hunger growing within her stomach. She was the Serpent, the Creature, just another being fighting for her life in a Maze that had been built to deny them that.

The Hunt changed them all. Made monsters out of maids and let grim build into mold.

Harry, sweet Harry, dear Harry, the boy with a lopsided grin and green eyes and tousled hair that Ronald had always teased him over-

_ Harry. _

He had entered, joined the Hunt with her, sat and stood within the circle as images and flashes of instructions presented as memories had preyed upon their limited senses. She hadn’t known him, didn’t know him, but knew him briefly and deeply.

_ Harry. _

The first boy to hold her hand, the first boy to place a kiss upon her cheek, the first boy to laugh in that broken-cracking-growing sort of way. 

She dug her nails into his back until she was knocking- _ clicking- _ **_chipping_ ** against the bone. She tore out what tasted like iron and smelled like life and  _ cried _ even as she did it. Fat tears, blubbering with hurt and pain and so many unanswered questions. 

Laughing with joy.

_ Why- _

Because this was the Riddle House and it deserved it for what had happened to them. Because there were only three of them left, and each broaching ever deeper in search of the Centre. Hermione’s feet had quit dragging against the carpeting not three floors back, one after one after one until it all lead forwards to empty spaces and nothing but eerily blank walls. Doors that led to nowhere. Circles to floors she hadn’t visited.

Harry had grown teeth and claws and knives instead of gentle touches.

Harry had led her up and through the Maze until it was only them, only the room. Hermione had bit down with as much force as she could muster, could feel the delightful singe as liquid fled her changed mouth to pump heat along the patterns of his veins. 

It had been hard to deny herself the pleasure of that desire, especially so with Bellatrix whispering in her ears. Hard to fake absolution when it flowed and coated her with a second skin that speckled and sparkled beneath misplaced torchlight. And yet it pained her, lashed her from the heart -  _ mine or yours or his or hers or theirs or ours _ \- while inside her mind she  _ burned. _

No biting then. Biting hurt, biting bad, biting better served as something for Bellatrix to deal with. Bellatrix was good with teeth and claws, Bellatrix was good with skin like scales and sweet venom. Bellatrix was good with all the little things that frightened Hermione, even when Bellatrix seemed to fade within herself. Even when Bellatrix held her close as meat and gristle forced its way back up her throat.

She was no longer human, not truly. Given that there was no time, had she ever been?

Hermione couldn’t be sure. 

\---

Memories in the darkness.

It was a strong and lashing thing that pulled her upwards and onwards towards the final two. Pain blazed across her mind as she swiped and tore away at other’s flesh. She tripped up Rodolphus, made him lose his balance, threw him down onto the ground to drive claws through the gently yielding flesh of his windpipe. There was no moment to savour her kill.

Rodolphus was but one, and yet there remained one more. 

Until there hadn’t been any left. Just her. Just them. Body cut down by blades and whips and rushed up in a swell of magic to fall headfirst into the Pocket-watch as her soul separated from the majestically serpentine form she had acquired. Nothing had been left to her but little pieces of her mind.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, she worked and spun and clicked for ages on end, alone within the darkness and working out the fleeting limits of her prison. The moment of her freedom arrived after a time, and she promptly flew out and into the woman now clutching the doors of her little prison. 

She liked this woman. Could find it within herself to care for her even. But the warmth of companionship failed to stem the ties of pain within her mind. She lifted the girl up, brought her fangs, brought her words and defences she could use-

Bellatrix drove Hermione onwards, and in times of distress, she even maintained a physical form alongside her pretty host. At times she found a mirror -  _ one of many _ \- and saw herself again. Body still the same, yet it was not. Eyes vertical and inhuman. Claws on every finger, every toe. A black tail that swayed back and forth behind her. Demonic more than human.

Gleaming teeth set into a mouth that would drive a human mad with fright. 

The same as Hermione beside her.

So different, so alike, it was all that she could do to keep the hounds of her own mind at bay while she fought to remain separate from the girl. So close now, so close that she could  _ taste _ it.

She wanted to win more than life itself. 

Her Wish. Her desire.

_ Their Wish. Their desire. _

One person left. One spirit with him.

_ They would win. _


	10. February 29th 2020 - (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione robs a grave.
> 
> The inhabitants don't take kindly to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited, and part one of two. I'll finish up the next part at a later date.

“Drop it, right this instant.”

Hermione felt every muscle around her body freeze up in an instant. The voice that had broached the comforting silence was nearby, yet nowhere just the same. It passed  _ through _ her more than it pressed  _ against _ her; a husky tone had met her ears, dark and full of hushed promise. One by one the hairs along the back of her neck stood to attention with prickling unease, a mild cramp just barely at the periphery of her senses when the position of her left foot became just too cramped.

It wasn’t very often that robbing a grave led to an interaction. Hermione was smart about her operation. She was quick to loot what she could and find her way back home before the sun could begin to peak out above the distant horizon. There was usually no one around, and in this instance there most certainly shouldn’t have been anyone lurking about in the hills and woods surrounding the nearly forgotten cemetery. The Town at the bottom of the little valley she was in wasn’t large enough to support any law enforcement of its own. They would need to contract that work out to larger enclaves, have someone wander over every now and then to investigate noises and interpersonal disputes.

There shouldn’t have been any security here, especially seeing as only a handful of people even knew it still existed. Wealth and status bought mausoleums during life, let it all rot once the meaning to the names faded away. So faded and obscure that this mission should have been a simple in and out.

And yet it wasn’t. The voice said so.

Hermione bunched the muscles of her legs in an effort to get ahead of whoever must be behind her. Body ready, mind preparing all the needed facets to let her make a clean getaway. The Locket in her hand fell down by its chain until it was only looped around a finger and the silvered cup she held in her other hand with a loose grip. Best she drop the items if it came to it, she could make a clean escape if the other person was too worried about what she could have stolen. 

She turned around the space with grace and hidden potential, watching the walls and nooks with eyes that could still only barely make out the interior through the red light falling from her torch.

No one.

Hermione scrunched up her face, looked around herself in confusion and worry as the only thing that could be understood was realized.

She was alone. No one was here but her.

“I said drop it girl, are you deaf?”

Hermione jumped backwards within the small space, “What the fuck!” 

Her back pressed up tight against the cold wall behind her as sharp eyes flitted all around in search of whoever was trying to scare her. A ventriloquist? Perhaps. She most certainly couldn’t see a way for anyone else to be in the room, nor did there appear to be any way for someone to pipe their voice in through some mechanical means. There was simply no way for someone to be talking to her  _ in _ the mausoleum unless they were throwing their voice. Were they outside then? It made sense. Someone from the village must have seen her come into the secluded space and followed along behind her. Someone watching, someone waiting, someone willing to sit around until she had grabbed up a treasure from the sleeping dead.

“Show yourself,” Hermione challenged to the voice, her fingers gripping tighter along the edges of the cup and looping chain. “Come on, hurry it up then. You’ve got me, now where are you?”

“I’m right here you bloody imbecile,” the Voice retorted, just as loud and just as invasive as before.

Hermione startled again as the voice faded into an echo throughout the room, less harsh but still just as unexpected even while she  _ knew _ that they must be waiting outside.

“Uh-huh. Come on,” she wandered towards the entrance of the cramped space, head poking out as she looked side to side in expectation of finding the interloper. “Where are you then?”

“Hmm… Mistress, it seems to me that she’s quite  _ unlearned,” _ another voice began, different and yet coming at Hermione in much the same manner as the first.

It was everywhere around her, and yet nowhere at all.

“Haha, very funny.” Hermione stepped further from the entrance to the mausoleum, looking all around herself for some hidden space that the pranksters must have been hiding within. “I’m not daft. Now show yourself already!”

Nothing.

Hermione turned in circles as she looped the chain of the Locket around her neck and dropped the pretty chalice into the back she had slung around her back. Ever so slowly her eyes were adjusting to the dark, her vision having been protected just enough by the torch’s red filter to leave her able to  _ mostly _ see. Whoever had decided to torment her seemed reluctant to make their presence physical known and while Hermione wasn’t exactly used to dealing with all manner of intruders she did know some methods of keeping herself safe. Stealing back priceless artefacts on behalf of their rightful owners wasn’t exactly a business model that the rich and powerful would look down kindly upon.

Not to mention the fact that she was known to keep one or two choice items for herself. Usually it would be something that was small and unwanted, or someone only really useful enough to fund her next excursion into righting the wrongs of a buried past. The Chalice and the Locket were to be her winnings for an evening of work the prior day. She had already picked up the object she had been after; an old sword encrusted with stolen jewels that was found buried with a withered corpse going by the name of Dumbledore, after that it was her own prerogative to fill her bag with enough items to feed and lodge her for the next month.

And instead of all that, she was dealing with someone who wanted to be an annoyance.

At night, in a graveyard. Well past the witching hour and coming close to the first rays of sunlight.

Hermione searched around herself one last time before announcing to no one in particular, “Alright then. Just bugger off and stay that way.”

Satisfied that the situation was dealt with, Hermione turned on her heel with the intent of hightailing it back to her room for the night. Her mind moved on to more important topics and worries, specifically on who she should contact to fence her newfound items. She was certain that Ronald would take them but he had been working off on the other side of the country to support his gaggle of other siblings. Harry might take them, she knew he would be partial towards the locket that she had slung about her neck-

_ “That’s mine!” _

Hermione gracefully jumped back as far as she could with mouth agape and eyes widened into saucers. All the breath that had been in her lungs was gone, fright leaving her to stand there shivering before the sight of the mysterious interloper. A woman nearly twice her age, draped from shoulder to knees with black silk that had been fashioned into an elaborate robe. Hermione steadied her breathing as she took in the finer details of the intruder; pale skin that shone beneath the faint moonlight, long black hair that seemed so straight as to be fashioned from glass, and eyes that seemed haunted with some unknowable horror. 

Hermione pushed herself backwards on stumbling feet when the woman moved to approach further, the scent of pine and ashes kicking up within her nose. 

A rock met the backside of her boot.

She landed with a painful thud against the hard ground of the cemetery, heartbeat slowing when the woman before her made no move to approach-

“Boo.”

_ “Fuck!” _ Hermione lifted off the ground, rolling to her side with all the energy of true panic. Another woman had suddenly appeared at her side, kneeling down amid the grass right beside her. Hermione hadn’t even heard the other woman approach her, and in heavy garb that seemed to resemble the dresses and corsets that her mother had so favoured, it seemed that she  _ should _ have at least heard her.

She pushed herself upwards and off into a sprint from the madness of that cemetery, escape the only thing on her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses for who she met?


End file.
